Page 28 of In the Ravenous Dark
I can’t hold his dark gaze anymore, so I twirl away instead. “That’s right, you’re myguardian.So guard me. Hey, guardian, look, I’m falling. Save me!” I teeter toward the bed and let myself tip over backward. But my aim is poor. My shoulder cracks into the treelike corner post hard enough to shiver the leafy canopy, my hip bounces off the edge of the mattress, and I crash to the floor in a rush of sapphire silk. I rub my bottom, belatedly discovering my elbow hurts. “Ouch! Hey, wherewereyou? You’re supposed to catch me! You’re a terrible guardian. I hate you.” And then I’m crying.
Where have these idiotic tears come from? I suppose I’m still very drunk and very tired. And I’m a prisoner in the palace, bound to a dead spirit, and I’ve just embarrassed myself in front of a viper of a princess I had the foolish audacity to kiss. Besides, my elbow hurtsa lot.Maybe a few tears are allowed.
I assume the dead man will only stare imperiously down at me, or maybe vanish, fleeing. But suddenly his eyes are level with mine, close—close enough to startle me. I choke on a sob, swallowing hard.
“You can hate me,” he says quietly, “but Ican’ttouch you for anything other than true peril, because the costs are too high.”
I stare, tears forgotten. “The cost for you… or for me?” I remember that even hispinch, as soft and as brief as it was, left me dizzy. I remember that I still have questions abouthowhe can affect me, all the ways he might be able to hurt me, but my mind is able to focus about as well as my eyes.
He ignores me. “I would’ve liked to have caught you. It’s a shame to see you in this state.”
I spit at him. It passes right through his cheek and spattersthe floor beyond him. “Fuck your shame! I don’t need it, and fuck you—”
“—in the face, yes. Rovan, get into bed.”
I thump my head obstinately down—at least there’s a rug underneath me—and close my eyes, sniffing wetly. “I’m tired. All the time. But especially at the moment. I think I’ll just stay here.”
“Suit yourself.” He stands then, vanishing from the narrow view between my cracked eyelids. I think he’s gone, but then I hear his voice from somewhere above me. “I can’t lift you, but I suppose I can do this.”
The soft, comforting weight of a blanket settles over me. I would like to have seen what his hand looks like when it’s more material, but I can’t feel much of anything because I’m suddenly asleep.
9
When I open my eyes, I think that a fitting name for hangovers would bemorning regrets.Kissing Lydea was probably a terrible idea. And just what exactlydidI say to the dead man? And did I really sleep on the floor out of sheer stubbornness? I definitely regret the vicious crick in my shoulder and neck, which only amplifies the ache in my skull.
I smack my lips and croak, “Dead man?”
“I have a name,” comes his voice from the shadows.
When I turn my head, the shaft of sunlight from the window hits me like a spear in my brain. Another regret: not shutting the curtains. “I don’t need it. But I do need some water. I don’t suppose you can get me some?”
His voice is nearly as flat as before, but it’s somehow lighter. Somehowgloating. “I don’t supposeyouremember what we discussed last night?”
“Unfortunately, I remember too much.” I sit up, resisting the urge to vomit on the rug I used as my bed—that would be a poor way to repay it. “It’s not too much to hope that you were somehow drunk as well and don’t remember any of it?”
“Unfortunately,” he echoes, “I’m incapable of getting drunk.”
“Pity for you.”
I’m suddenly staring at his studded leather greaves as he stands over me. He’s back in his usual fighting attire.
“I would offer you a hand as well as water… but as I mentioned—”
“Not another word!” I shout, and then hunch over, assaulted by my own volume. “Ugh.”
There’s a soft knock at the door, followed by a voice—my father’s. “Rovan? May I come in?”
I almost prefer the dead man’s company, but he’s already vanished. While my mother has seen me like this plenty of times, my father hasn’t. But then, the state I saw him in yesterday is worse, in my opinion.
We may as well get to know each other as we are now.
“Yes,” I moan, not bothering to drag myself off the floor.
My father slips into the bedroom. He leaves the door cracked, as if to allow a hasty retreat if need be. He won’t meet my eyes. “You came home late last night.”
“This isn’t home, and last I checked I could go to bed whenever I wished.”
“It’s just that you don’t want to draw attention to yourself. I’ve already gotten word from Penelope, who was only too happy to share that you were drinking heavily and incloseproximity to Princess Lydea.”
